


Full

by menin_aeide



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, M/M, Recovery, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menin_aeide/pseuds/menin_aeide
Summary: After years as a bulimic, Hux finally has a breakthrough. And he's shocked by what he hasn't seen until now.This is probably the most personal thing I have written - I'm not sure how much of a story it is, but I wanted to write it down to give it some sort of structure. To a large extent, I imagine, it's a sort of character study.Please note there are some fairly graphic descriptions of binge eating and vomiting, as well as of self-destructive thoughts and bad relationships.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 27
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

It occurs to Hux, in one of the lulls between vomiting bouts, as he drinks some water to ease the process, that hurting yourself like he does probably doesn’t come this easily to most people. That most people are occasionally self-destructive, sure, but the intensity, the constancy of his urge is _really_ not normal. Most people are not like this, and could not find it in themselves to do _this_ to themselves – much less feel this compulsion, like a constant burn under his skin. He is struck by the realisation for a moment. Adds it to the high pile of oddities – _weirdnesses_ – that have characterised him and set him apart from everyone else for as long as he can remember. Then pushes his diaphragm in his practised way, and throws up some more.

***

He started doing it because he wanted to poison his father. Not actually, but he fantasised about it. He was leafing through a pharmaceutical vademecum that was lying around his parent’s flat, aged around sixteen, idly browsing his way through toxic substances, when he came across the Emetics section.

_Salt water and mustard water, which act directly on the stomach, have been used since ancient times as emetics. Care must be taken with salt, as excessive intake can potentially be harmful._

Salt water made you throw up? That simple? Really?

(It doesn’t, not really, not like that. But it was the doorway).

He tried it, for some reason that he had never completely understood: he was trying to find ways to hurt his father, after all, not himself. The fact that it promised to be an easy way to deal with his sweet tooth helped, of course, but that wasn’t all, or even the main reason. While he was vain, it had never been about losing or maintaining weight, not really.

It was about satisfaction. Or rather, its lack.

***

He looks up, eyes tearing. Coughs, drinks some water. Still, the urge for _more._ He goes back to the kitchen, picks the round tin box of Danish butter cookies he had placed on the countertop. Prises the cellophane off the lid, takes the lid off, revealing the golden, sugar-studded biscuits, nestled in their ruffled paper wrappers. Goes back to the living room, sits with the box by his side, and picks up a magazine from the table – nothing demanding, nothing that requires him to _think._ And he starts eating again, sliding into the warm, bland comfort of the biscuits as they melt back into a buttery dough in his mouth, all the way down to his stomach. They won’t stay there for long.

***

It’s pathetic, really. A grown-up man indulging in this – ridiculousness. Like every other emo teenager thinking they’re the second coming of Sylvia Plath. And _biscuits_. For fuck’s sake.

And such a _feminine_ thing, too, food. A vice, really. Not something really macho and serious, like, say, chain-smoking or alcoholism or extreme sports. An added layer of shame, of self-loathing. _You fucking pussy._

Worst of all, though, is – he’s in his forties. Edging towards mid-forties, actually. And he _still_ hasn’t managed to get a grip on this.

He looks back at his life, his so-called career, and sees nothing but a wreck. He knows, objectively, that this is not so – that he hasn’t done _nothing,_ that there are some things that can possibly be salvaged. He’s a quite successful lawyer, after all, even if he hasn’t had the trailblazing career he had vaguely thought he wanted, back in law school. He was regarded as an almost genius, so intelligent, so brilliant, for so long. And then – not mediocrity, exactly. But certainly not glittering success, either.

Not that he gives a shit, now. And that, he thinks, is the point – he’s never cared enough about the law, never been passionate about it. He’s more than competent, he’s good. But he’s never had the drive, the passion he recognises in Poe and Finn, fellow lawyers at his firm who clearly love their work, and it _shows._

 _What do you want to be when you grow up?_ he was asked as a child, as all children are. And he would glance at his father, and always give the same answer: _I don’t know._

He still doesn’t.

***

It’s done. But not _quite_ done. There’s another tin in the cupboard. He goes back to the kitchen.

***

It’s not that he’s passionate about food, like gourmets and truly greedy people are. Food is pleasurable but _dumb,_ it’s just a way to fill yourself up, to fill the emptiness inside, and then violently void yourself again. In and out, in and out, in and out.

It’s so obvious, it’s ridiculous. A grotesque parody of coitus. Fucking yourself with food, stuffing your hole, and then the ejaculating vomit.

On and on and on, non-stop, until the pleasure, the sheer relief of feeling _filled_ ends and pain starts. Which is differently satisfactory, in its own way. He has never been a physical masochist (though God knows that he has been an emotional one. Repeatedly). But there is a sort of comfort in reaching the edge of his physical capacity, a sort of completion – the process is ending, it’s almost over, almost done (as if this were something he _had_ to do, for fuck’s sake). He knows, though, that if he doesn’t reach the pain, if he remains in the pleasure, he’ll just start again and go on. He needs to reach the point when his body just can’t take any more.

And then, if he pushes too far – which he’s lately doing more and more – he moves past pain and into disgust. Actual nausea. Turning the artificially induced vomit into the real thing, the terrifying reflex when the body takes over and he loses control over the spasms.

He’s sick of it, in every sense. Every time he does it he swears to himself it’s the last. And yet the emptiness, the hole, the huge, gaping, sad loneliness is still there, and this is the only way he has to fill it.

He knows it will kill him if he goes on like this. It worries him. But not enough. And sometimes, he doesn’t care very much if it does.

***

Finally, he reaches the end of the tin, and there are no more left. His throat burns, his face is red and congested, his eyes bloodshot. His head is already throbbing, but he knows he will really pay for it tomorrow, when every little vein in his skull will seem to swell in pain.

It was better, a bit, when he was in a relationship – or rather, a non-relationship, given his penchant for picking ambivalent men who made it clear that they were far less interested in him than he was in them but who still fucked him as though they were doing him a favour (and he _felt_ they were doing him a favour). The sex, however, was never very satisfactory. He knew he was capable of so much more, sexually. But all he focused on was the other person’s satisfaction – if his partner came, then everything was alright, never mind if his own orgasm was rather lacklustre.

What _did_ put a stop to it, for a while, was when he first decided to explore his submissive tendencies and – brazenly, he felt – sought out a willing dominant on the Internet. It was a huge relief at first, realising that his desires were not monstrous, as he had felt for so long, being able to talk openly about what his previous partners had refused to even mention. But he always knew that the dominant – who was a kind man, if fairly shallow – was not someone he could really talk to about anything else. Falling in love was never on the cards, and Hux understood that he needed that, too. The day, four months in, when the dominant asked him to stay over – which would have overjoyed Hux if it had come from any of the distant lovers he had actually fallen in love with in the past – and he just felt dread at the prospect of having to have a conversation with him, the sheer _boredom_ of it, was when he realised the thing (whatever it was) had run its course.

He didn’t go back to vomiting immediately. For quite a long time, he felt secure, powerful even, with his newly acquired self-knowledge.

Then came another man who seemed interested in his proclivities, even eager to experiment with his own desires. And who then, when Hux was sunk deep in his love for him, started pulling out. Slowly, and denying all the time that he was doing it, and blaming Hux for being too needy for, well, wanting his supposed partner to actually _be there_ on a fairly regular basis.

He thought of it as gaslighting, later – particularly when the other man started to gradually withdraw sex for no discernible reason over several years, until Hux felt utterly undesirable. And yet his lover – non-lover – whatever he was – clung on, refusing to be clear, refusing to give him clarity about anything. That, he thought, had been the cruellest thing.

Hux had ended it, eventually, when the other man told him that he was unable to be with him for Hux’s birthday because “he just didn’t feel up to it”, and Hux suddenly understood, really understood for the first time, that actions speak louder than words. And what the other man’s actions – though not his words – had been telling him very clearly from early on was _: I just don’t care enough about you._

He had held on for a while, after that. But then he looked back at the time he’d lost, how he had wasted himself on men who were not remotely worth it, and felt nothing but rage and shame. And the old, familiar emptiness came back, multiplied manifold now that it was clear that he had been alone all the time.

And again, food was there to fill the void.

***

He is working more and more from home, now, which relieves him, and this worries him. Isolating himself is something that he can fall into extremely easily. He’s a fairly extreme introvert, as well as – which would be incredible to most of the people who deal with him – very shy. He manages it well, though, but he knows that his demeanour is such that many people perceive as aloofness and arrogance what is actually insecurity. That, and an inability to genuinely _connect_ with anyone. All courtesy of his upbringing – _thanks, Dad_.

At least he no longer despises people in general, as he was implicitly taught to do in a household in which the underlying axiom was that the Hux family were the only real human beings on the planet, and everyone else were an inferior subspecies. Oh, it was not that his parents were anything other than scrupulously polite, and made sure that their son had exquisite manners, too. But he remembers how, whenever the guests they had had over for dinner left, his father would close the door, turn around, and start savagely mocking the people Hux had assumed were his friends.

 _No such thing as friends,_ was the message he absorbed. And, swiftly enough, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. He was severely bullied in school, and certainly some of his classmates were horrid little beasts. But then, he didn’t exactly help, either: fiercely loyal to his family’s superiority dogma, he – and his parents – regarded the bullying as practically inevitable. People were nothing but idiots, after all: it was only to be expected that they would be jealous of those who were better than them.

Again, the message was clear. _You are alone among animals. There is no one you can really talk to, who can really be with you. No one can reach you. You will always be alone._

***

He would be dead if it had not been for his therapist. Well, not literally dead – he doesn’t think he has it in him to kill himself – but whatever semblance of a life he has, he feels, is thanks to her. He’s been seeing her for many years, which makes him feel shame – _what kind of freak needs therapy for so long? –_ and, sometimes, in his very worst moods, anger at her – _what kind of therapist takes so many years and it still doesn’t work?_

She’s been there during his awful, violent moods (only verbally violent, but still). And she’s still there for him.

“The thing is, everything I do seems so pointless. My job is good, I make good money, I know I’m fortunate. But I don’t give a shit about it. And what really, really terrifies me is that I feel I’m running out of time. I’m almost 45 and I have done _nothing._ And I won’t have time left to do anything worth doing.” He looks up at her in anguish. “I’ll die without ever having lived.”

She looks back at him. Then says in her soft, firm voice: “You have achieved _so much_ , Armitage, and you have _so much_ going for you. You are so brave. But you just don’t realise it.”

He blinks. That’s really, _really_ hard to believe. “I don’t like myself very much.”

“It’s far easier for people to harm themselves than to find satisfaction. Being happy is difficult.” She holds his gaze. “You have to stop, though, Armitage. You know it.”

He lowers his eyes. “Yes. I know.”

***

The epiphany comes when his father has a heart attack. There's no serious damage, just a warning, but he spends three days taking turns by the bedside with his stepmother. And then his uncle Frank comes to see his younger brother in hospital, and takes Hux out for lunch.

“Good thing you are here for your parents,” says his uncle, as he pours himself wine. “But then that’s only to be expected at this point in your life, right?”

“I’m sorry?” asks Hux, uncomprehending.

“Well, your last boyfriend was – when? Three years ago? No children, no partner. You are your parents’ only child. Did you see _Like Water for Chocolate_?”

Hux shakes his head, mutely.

“It’s a film about this Mexican girl who is raised to be her mother’s carer when she gets old. And of course she’s expected to never marry, because she knows what her duty is.” His uncle glances at Hux. “Let’s face it, Armitage. Whatever you haven’t done by now, you won’t be doing at all. This is your life now.”

***

It takes him a while to process his uncle’s words, which, he realises later, are nothing but an obnoxiously clear distillation of his family’s – his parents’ – implicit expectations of him. And then it hits him. For all of his life, his parents had been remarkably hands-off about his academic performance and his future prospects: they hadn’t pushed him into a career or been constantly alert about his grades or his examinations, like other parents did. He’d thought that they didn’t have any expectations of him in that respect because they didn’t want him to do anything in particular.

And now he sees that they had desperately wanted one thing, and one thing only, of him all along. They had wanted him to stay by their side. And he, without even realising it, had done exactly what they wanted.

He sees it now, the pattern: how his parents had isolated him since childhood, instilling the family superiority complex in him, making him an intellectual powerhouse while ensuring that there would never be anyone other than them to share his interests with. Making it clear that only those interests approved by them were valid, to such an extent that Hux had been unable to even _think_ of wanting anything that was not sanctioned by his parents. Failing to act about the bullying and his later problems, because those were only to be expected because he was so exceptional and everyone else was so idiotic and worthless (and having a problematic child gave his homemaker stepmother something to keep busy with). Passively sabotaging any potential route out – university in another city, a job abroad – by very obviously failing to give any support in any way.

And then he had sought out relationships with men who would never interfere with his bond with his parents. Men who never gave him what he needed, who would never claim him and lead him to make a break. Men whose desires – like his parents’ – were all that mattered; never his own.

And he _hadn’t seen it._

He’s so furious for months – with his uncle, with his parents, but mainly with himself – that sometimes he’s unable to speak.

When he tells his therapist, she just listens. Then says: “You’ve been primed and ready for a while. This conversation with your uncle just triggered it.” She smiles. “You finally, truly, cut the umbilical cord.”

“At forty-five,” replies Hux bitterly.

“Armitage. Most people never do.”

***

And suddenly, it’s as if everything clicks into place. Food was essentially the only pleasure allowed in his household when he was growing up. Encouraged, actually: his father was always greedy (which was directly connected to his stroke). No wonder he turned to it as both easy comfort and, by throwing up, the only way he could find to rebel (and, at the same time, make it possible to eat even more. And remain in thrall.)

And then comes the panic, his uncle’s remembered words biting him to the quick. That he was right, that it’s too late, that he’s past it. That he’s wasted his entire life without realising that he was playing the role of eternal son preordained for him.

Gradually, supported by his therapist, he calms down. Yes, there is still plenty of time for him, plenty of time to have a life worth living. A life that makes him proud, that satisfies him. But he needs to stop destroying himself and start building.

For the first time, he finds himself unable to tolerate for long his parents’ perpetual stream of criticism against other people, which seems to be their only form of conversation. It’s not even particularly malevolent, he realises. It’s just that they don’t have anything else to talk about. And it’s so _boring._

But of course, he understands now, destroying – bringing other people down, not engaging with anything or anyone, simply _not bothering_ – is so much easier than creating.

***

He’s not clear about what he wants – he’s never been – but he thinks that, as an introvert, writing will be easier to start with. He loves reading, after all. And he’s always been told that he writes very well, which is fairly unusual for lawyers. So he decides to take a writing course.

The problem with food gets better. Weekends used to stretch endlessly and lonely before him, but now he’s busy writing, which somehow seems to lessen his craving to fill himself. It’s still there, but he feels it less often, and it's somewhat more manageable.

Even though at first he feels a burning urge to dump absolutely everything and be done, he doesn’t leave his job – he’s good at it, and he enjoys parts of it, and of course he needs the money. But he makes a point of not working overtime anymore, refusing to feel guilty. And now he knows that this is not how he will be spending the rest of his life – he doesn’t know what he’ll do exactly, but he’s certain that this is not forever. Which makes it easier.

To such an extent, that he even starts talking more to Finn and Poe. To his surprise, they are happy to engage with him, even seem to like him.

“You’d always seemed so… distant,” says Finn, eventually, over drinks at the bar one Friday after work. “Great to work with, but – well, you made it clear that you preferred to be left alone. So we did.”

“Great to work with? I thought I was General Hux.”

“Oh, you heard that?” Finn squirms slightly, embarrassed.

“It’s all right. I know I can get pretty obnoxious sometimes.”

“Hey, it’s good to have someone tell us what’s what sometimes,” says Poe, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the only person I know who can more or less bring people into line in the office. You’re a regular cat shepherd, if you ask me.”

Hux smiles slightly, thinking of the cat he always wanted but always thought was a stupid idea. (His father hates cats). Then he looks up, and sees a huge, dark-haired younger man, staring across the room at him.

His stomach clenches, and not in the usual, self-harming way. “Who’s that looking our way?” he asks Finn, trying to feign nonchalance.

They both turn. “Ben Solo. The new hire. A bit of an oddball,” answers Finn. “Look, if he’s been bothering you…”

“What? No. No, I didn’t even know who he was. Why would he bother me?”

Poe looks at him in slight concern. “It’s just – the way he’s been looking at you since he came on, it’s obvious he… Well, he likes you. It’s so glaring, he might as well be wearing a neon sign on top of his head.”

“ _What??_ ” He looks again at Solo, who is now taking a pint from the barmaid, looking slightly morose, then quickly looks away again. “No, I had no idea, I never… I never even noticed him, to be honest.”

_What else haven’t I noticed?_

“He’s – not a bad guy,” says Poe, carefully. “Complicated, though.”

 _Complicated. Ha._ And he orders another diet Coke. But not without first taking another look at the man before he disappears into the crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

Hux starts noticing Solo around the office, after that evening and, yes, the man does seem to be interested in him, as Poe said. He’s not sure how he feels about it – uncomfortable, to a certain extent, but also, he has to admit, flattered in a way. And, again, uncomfortable about liking his attention – he finds Solo attractive, but he must be at least ten years younger than him, and he’s not sure how he feels about that (despite the fact that his past partners were eight and twelve years older than him).

_When you were seventeen he was **seven** at most. Jesus._

_But he’s not seven anymore, is he?_

In any case, he starts acknowledging Solo’s presence, nodding as he walks past him, even smiling politely when they meet at the turnstile in the morning. And then one day there’s a knock on his door, and Solo’s standing there, a folder in his hand.

“Erm… Sorry to bother you. Do you have a moment?”

Hux stands from behind his desk. “Please, come in. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He stretches out his hand.

Solo stares at Hux’s hand for a second, as if hesitating, then shakes it briefly – a strong, warm grip. “No, I think you weren’t at the office the day I first came. I’m Ben.”

“Armitage. Yes, I worked quite a bit from home for a while, but these days I’m trying to be around more often.” He sits again and gestures for Solo to take the seat across from him, which he does. “How can I help you, Ben?”

“Yes. It’s about the Pryde case –” Ben slides the folder across the desk towards Hux, who fingers it, frowning.

“The murder case? I have very little experience with criminal law, and I’m not a litigator – “

Ben – who _is_ a litigator, and, from what Hux has heard, is known for his vehement, occasionally fierce, demeanour in court – nods. “I know – but the financial aspects are a total nightmare, and I can make no sense out of it. _None_. I’m desperate. And Snoke said you were the right person to come to.”

Hux smiles, thin-lipped, at the mention of the senior partner. The man always raises his hackles – even if he is right about Hux’s expertise in finance law. He leaves through the documents, scanning. “Hm. Yes, well, looks like the usual tangle of holdings and shell companies in tax havens to the nth power.” He looks over the folder at Solo, whose dark eyes are fixed on him. “I could take a look…”

“That would be great!” says Ben, his expression suddenly giddy with eagerness and relief. “If you don’t mind, of course. I wouldn’t want to…”

“Not at all. I can spare some time. Can I keep these?”

“Please!” Ben stands to leave, and turns at the door, beaming. “Thank you so much, Armitage. I really appreciate it.”

And as he shuts the door behind him, Hux finds himself wondering at how much Ben’s face changes when he smiles – from saturnine, intimidating impassiveness to boyish glee. Like louring clouds suddenly parting to let the sunlight through.

***

He works his way through the file, meticulously picking out the minimal discrepancies in the accounts that turn out to be revelatory, the thread that enables him to untangle the whole web of deceit and façades. And finally gets the data that Ben needs.

“You were right. He was embezzling funds from his company and stashing them away in offshore accounts.” He places the folder back again on Ben’s desk. “Pretty good grounds for murder, I’d think.”

Ben grins. “Yeah, both for his company and for his wife. He was hiding assets while clearing the way to leave her after thirty years. For his twenty-two-year-old secretary.” And then his grin turns into that beaming, unexpected smile that shakes Hux to the core. “Thank you _so much_ for this, Armitage. You just made our case.” He looks at him, suddenly hesitant again. “I, erm – can I buy you lunch today, at a nice place? To thank you. It’s the least I can do.”

Hux tenses up automatically. A restaurant. A menu. Bread rolls. Dessert.

The restaurant toilets.

He looks down, trying to conceal his discomfort. “I – sorry, I don’t have lunch with co-workers.” He looks up, sees the reaction on Ben’s face. He looks _desolate_. Rejected. And very clearly about to slide into feeling utterly stupid for asking. “I have dietary issues,” he adds quickly. Which is, after all, true.

The relief on Ben’s face is heartbreaking, how the life, the _light,_ floods back into it. “Oh. Right.” But seems unsure what to say now.

“We can have a drink after work. If you like,” says Hux.

And again, is slightly concerned about how happy Ben looks when he says this. And how much he likes seeing that look on his face.

***

How they go from sitting across each other in a booth, with Hux sipping at his diet Coke (he’s not taking any risks) while listening to Ben tell him about the intricacies of the Pryde case, to kissing desperately in the back alley behind the bar, Hux’ll never know.

 _This is a terrible idea,_ he keeps thinking, as he takes Ben’s mouth like a drowning man hanging onto a breathing tube. Ben’s younger, they work in the same office, he knows next to nothing about Ben, and God knows that Hux is carrying enough issues around to terrify any potential partner. Also, Hux doesn’t do one-night stands, not really: even if he tries, it’s likely that he’s going to get emotionally entangled here, one way or another.

But right now, he doesn’t give a shit about any of that.

He draws back for a moment, coming up for breath. Ben is staring at him wide-eyed and dazed, as if intoxicated.

“I live a couple of streets away,” he manages to gasp out.

***

They crash through the door to Ben’s flat, through the door to his bedroom, and onto his bed. Everything is huge and mostly dark, but Hux doesn’t even notice: he’s utterly fixated on Ben, his face, his mouth – God, those _lips –,_ the way his breath hitches when Hux grazes his teeth against the skin of Ben’s neck while lightly skimming his flanks with his fingertips.

He brings his hand down between Ben’s legs, and he’s not sure what is more satisfying: the obvious hardness there, or Ben’s helpless moan. Urgently, he undoes Ben’s belt and fly, pulls down his trousers – and out springs a majestic, furiously red cock.

His mouth waters just seeing it.

Ben props himself up on his elbows, opens his mouth. And immediately closes it, stunned, as Hux brings his own mouth down on his cock and starts sucking and licking.

_God._

It’s _exquisite,_ the softness of his skin against his tongue, the musk filling his nostrils, its live, throbbing heat in his mouth. How it _fills_ him. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the moment, giving himself over to the warmth of Ben, his smell, the sheer presence of him beneath him, _in_ him.

Neither one of them lasts very long. Hux hears, distantly, Ben stutter something, as if in weak warning or apology – because he very clearly doesn’t want Hux to stop – and then there comes the salt, hot spurt in his mouth, against the back of his throat, like warm seawater, and Hux swallows greedily, even as he orgasms too.

When he looks up again, face covered in come – because Ben’s ejaculate is ridiculously abundant, and explosive – Ben’s lying back against graphite-grey pillows, eyes closed, catching his breath.

“I was going to say,” he laughs, breathily, “I never do this on the first date.”

Hux smiles. “Me neither.”

He’s going to ask where the bathroom is to wash the sticky fluid off his face, when suddenly Ben sits up, leans forward, holds Hux in his arms, and kisses him deeply. And somehow, in a different way, it feels just as intense as, or even more so than, the blind, fiery kisses they exchanged on their way here.

When he opens his eyes again, Ben is looking down at him in slight concern. “Look, I – I don’t know if I’m going too quickly, but I – “

“I’m perfectly fine, Ben.” But still, he’s moved. And kisses him back to show it. “More than fine.”

Ben grins against his mouth. “I’d been wanting to kiss you since the first time I saw you.”

“Turned on by authority figures, are you?” So it seems that the aloof General Hux persona has served some purpose after all – even if, for the most part, he was unaware of it.

“You’re not my boss, Armitage,” points out Ben, still smiling. “If anything, I prefer it the other way around.”

Hux raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Let’s just say that I’m not usually… overwhelmed like this.” Ben looks so pleased, so _happy_ about what has just happened that Hux feels a sudden pang of guilt.

He looks at him in silence for a moment. Then: “There’s something you need to know.”

“Yes?”

“I…” He looks up at Ben, and he can’t say it. Not _that,_ at least. “I usually prefer to be the one who’s overwhelmed, myself.”

Ben beams again. He fingers the collar of Hux’s shirt, which he never actually managed to take off. “I think we’ll have to discuss that _extensively,_ General.”

Then grabs it and pulls Hux towards him for another kiss.

***

When he wakes up in the morning, he’s lying in a tangle of grey sheets on the huge bed, and Ben is nowhere to be seen. He gets up and walks out of the bedroom, looking for him, and realises just how enormous Ben’s apartment is. And how much Ben seems to like black.

He’s staring at some sort of jet-black African-looking mask hanging at a focal point on the wall when Ben walks into the room, carrying a mug of coffee, which he offers to Hux.

“You like it black, with sweetener, I think?”

Which is exactly right. “How do you…?”

“I pay attention.” Almost bashful.

Hux takes the coffee gratefully. He doesn’t really know what to say, now. Then he looks at the time, and realises. “Oh. I need to get going.”

Ben looks disappointed. “Really? It’s the weekend. I was hoping we could spend the day together.”

Again, the pang. Doubly so. “I’d love to, I really would, I’m not just saying that, Ben. I have an appointment.” It sounds so much like a fake excuse – and he can see on Ben’s face that he thinks that’s what it is – that he adds: “My therapist works on Saturdays.”

 _Might as well get it out of the way._ He looks at Ben, expecting to see distaste and apprehension, but he seems to take it in stride. Interested, even. Hux says: “We could meet afterwards?”

“I’d love that,” says Ben. He waits for a moment, hesitating. Then asks: “You’ve been seeing him for long?”

“Her. For a while, yes. I find it – very useful.” _And here it comes._

But Ben only says: “I was in therapy for a long time. I haven’t been for a while, but I was thinking of giving her a call again.” As if it were the most natural thing in the world. Hux blinks, but before he can say anything, Ben goes on. “This is possibly far too soon to talk about this stuff, but you’ll probably hear about it at some point. I – was pretty troubled when I was younger. Anger management problems, breaking stuff, that sort of thing. Got arrested a few times. You’ll find the headlines when you Google me.”

“You made the headlines?” What on earth did Ben do, _kill_ someone?

“Because of my family. My mother, in particular.” He sees the blank look in Hux’s eyes. “She goes by her maiden name. Organa.”

Oh. Oh. _Oh._ “You’re Senator Organa’s son.” He doesn’t follow this kind of news much, but for a number of years, it was inevitable to see the Senator’s family antics splashed over the cover of the tabloids, and even in the regular media, gleefully picked over by political and gossip commentators. The Organa-Solos’ ongoing train wreck had been for a while part of the zeitgeist, halfway in the spectrum between the Kennedys and the Kardashians in US popular culture. Hux seems to remember paparazzi snaps of an angry, hulking emo teenager, charging at cameras like a wild bull, being arraigned as a minor before a court in the midst of what had struck Hux even then as disgusting schadenfreude.

“Yep.” He looks suddenly very serious. “Whatever you read, I want you to know – it made all the difference, for me. I haven’t had any problems with my anger in years. And, whatever the press said, I never…”

Hux nods. The thought that Ben might be dangerous had never crossed his mind, but he can see how other people must see him as a potential threat, in particular given his build and his very public past. “Thanks for letting me know, Ben.”

He realises that he should say something about his own problems, his own history. But not now. He swallows. “I really need to get a shower and a change of clothes. Can I give you I call when I’m done? I should be out by half-past four.”

“Perfect,” says Ben. And kisses him again.

***

When Hux comes back, they talk about going out for a film, but end up having sex on the sofa instead. Then on the bed. And then in the shower.

Next morning, Hux wakes to the smell of something cooking.

“Hope you like pancakes,” says Ben when he finds him the kitchen, flipping one in a pan and adding it to an alarming pile on the side.

Hux blanches. “I love pancakes”, he says. And he does. That’s exactly the problem. He looks at the mounting pile of pancakes, now oozing with maple syrup. He knows perfectly well that he could polish it off in under two minutes, then go to the toilet and come back for more.

And then Ben turns, platter of pancakes in hand. And takes in Hux’s expression. “What’s wrong?” Then remembers: “Oh, right, you said you have dietary issues. I’m so sorry, Armitage, I forgot. What can you eat? Or, we can go somewhere, if it’s easier?”

Ben looks so earnest in his desire to accommodate him, to _adapt_ to him, that Hux can’t bear it. “No, Ben, it’s not… It’s not that kind of thing.” He sits on one of the kitchen chairs, feeling, appropriately enough, nauseous. How does he tell Ben?

“I have a problem with food. In general,” he ends up saying. When Ben says nothing, he goes on. “It’s – better now. But I’m still pretty careful about the whole thing. I’m so sorry.”

Ben frowns, setting the pancakes aside, out of sight, and crosses his arms. Not angry or irritated, but as Hux has seen him get when he is concentrating, preparing his cases. “Would you feel comfortable telling me what kind of problem?”

Hux swallows. That is the hard thing he’s been dreading ever since he first laid eyes on Ben. “I binge eat. And then throw up. Not to lose weight, in particular. Although I would be the size of a house if I had kept down everything I…” His voice trails off.

“Very often?”

“Yes.” He looks down at his hands, then back up. “As I said, it’s better now. Because I saw the emptiness that I was – am – trying to fill. The hole. The…” He sighs. “I have my own issues with my family. Although they were much less obvious than yours – insidious. Everything normal from the outside, and even from the inside, apparently. I only saw the – the extent of the damage recently. It’s been driving me crazy.” He clenches his hands, frustrated, as he feels his eyes moisten.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Only two days in, and he’s spilling his guts and crying like a baby in front of this man.

He tries to get a grip on himself, grasping onto his usual façade of curt efficiency. “Anyway. Food worries me, to say the least. Or, more accurately, it frightens me. I – I don’t know how to deal with it. It’s always been a crutch for me, and now that I’m getting rid of it, I just don’t know how to – “ He looks up at Ben, suddenly, horribly vulnerable. “It terrifies me,” he whispers.

And what he means is: _Food terrifies me. Feeling that it’s too late for me terrifies me. The thought that you will reject me terrifies me._

He is overcome by a wave of vertigo as he looks down at the black and white tiles on Ben’s kitchen floor. When he looks up again, Ben is kneeling in front of him, looking at him with intent concern. He places a tentative hand on Hux’s knee.

“I know what it’s like to be terrified of yourself,” he whispers. “To feel so alone. So cut off.”

“I just feel so empty, Ben,” says Hux. _And the only way I know to deal with that is stuffing myself full over and over to plug in the hole._

Only it comes out as a shuddering sob, and he finds himself, to his horror, crying against Ben’s shoulder.

Ben just stays there, kneeling, holding him in his arms as best he can. And then, as Hux’s sobs gradually subside, he cups Hux’s face in his hand, wiping away the tears with his thumb.

Which moves down Hux’s cheek. Their eyes meet. And gently, Ben’s thumb slides past Hux’s parted lips, into his warm, soft mouth. Hux closes his eyes, allowing Ben in, and nuzzles against his hand.

Ben’s thumb feels huge in his mouth, firm and warm and reassuring. Hux sucks on it as he leans into Ben’s chest, feeling his silent gasp. Somehow, Ben manages to position himself on the floor so that Hux is coiled up on his lap, head against his chest, peacefully suckling, held by Ben’s arm around his waist. Ben’s free hand slides down Hux’s back to cup his buttock, his fingertips resting against the place where the fabric of Hux’s trousers dips at the cleft – and Hux feels comforted by the thought that his emptiness will be filled there too, later.

He has no idea how long it’s been when he finally opens his eyes, but Ben’s legs must be in agony. He doesn’t look in pain when Hux pulls away, though – peaceful, rather. Happy.

He looks at Ben. “I’m hungry,” he says. Shyly, tentatively. “Perhaps I could have one of those pancakes, after all – if you’ll share it with me?”

Ben’s smiles, a gentle predator. “You can eat it from my hand.” And Hux’s stomach seizes with lust. Even more so when Ben leans forward and murmurs against his hair: “Don’t worry. I’ll feed your hunger. And make sure you are sated.”

And he does.


End file.
